Smoke Damage
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly suffers a disaster - who's going to help? Sherlolly


_**My apologies in advance for this sad little story. I've had a bad week. My house burned on Saturday, and I'm feeling a bit depressed. All the humans are fine, just a bit shell shocked. But we lost all our pets - three dogs, and a cat. It still just doesn't seem real. We're now homeless, and what clothes we managed to salvage all smell of wood smoke. I've written more about it on my blog .com**_. _**Come and commiserate with me!**_

Dr. Molly Hooper was an extraordinary woman. She could laugh in the face of adversity, spit in the face of danger, and hum a happy tune while working in a roomful of corpses. But not today. The chilly morgue in which she was performing her third autopsy of the day carried the faint smoky odor of burnt wood along with the somewhat cloying scent of death. Molly's own lemon fresh aroma barely made a dent in the overwhelming stench of decay and hellfire.

Two nights previously, Molly had been awakened from a rather pleasant dream, featuring, of course, Sherlock Holmes, by the annoying bleating of a smoke alarm. She naturally assumed, as everyone does, that a battery needed to be replaced, or that something else had gone wrong with the wiring, but these thoughts were quickly dispelled by the increasingly strong smell of smoke. When her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, made even more oppressive by the smoke, she launched herself at her bedroom door, felt for heat from the other side, then opened it cautiously. She quickly checked her flat, found no flames, and rushed to the front door, concerned for her neighbors. The couple across the hall were already aware of the situation, and heading out to the street. Other were descending from the flats above, so Molly's concern now was directed at Mrs. Hazzard, her kindly but rather discombobulated elderly downstairs neighbor. She hurried down the stairs now, eager to check on the old woman. When she arrived at the woman's door, she was distressed to find it still closed, and when she placed her hand on the wood she could feel heat emanating from inside. She quickly grabbed a fireman (how often had she fantasized about that, although under different circumstances!), and explained the situation. The man forced the door open, walking through flames to reach the woman's bedroom as Molly had directed him. Molly was vastly relieved to see him return, holding the frail woman in his arms, and joined them in heading out the door. She quickly turned on her heels, however, as she finally remembered something important. Toby was still in her flat, probably cowering under her bed. She made a step back toward the stairway, but was stopped by a hand grabbing her arm roughly. "Where do you think you're going, Miss?"

"My cat is still upstairs. I've got to go back!"

"Not possible. The building is filling with smoke, and the fire is far from under control. Outside, with everybody else. Now!"

Molly, while recognizing the necessity of his words, couldn't help but consider ignoring them. Her beloved Toby was alone in the dark, and the smoke. Tears were starting to fall from her eyes. One of her neighbors wrapped an arm around her and lead her away, but not without a little struggle. Molly was no fool. She knew the risk to herself, and any firefighter who would be forced to join her in a rescue attempt. Toby was simply a cat, and human lives were at risk. But he was her cat, damn it! Her constant companion since she had arrived in London fifteen years ago. He had survived this long, sometimes roaming the streets and alleyways, and should have died of old age, preferably in her arms, not cowering in the dark, alone. A sob escaped her, and her neighbor tightened his grip.

The somber group of former building mates stood milling about the street, looking at the smoking hulk of their former home. Several had left already, finding accommodation with friends or family. Molly Hooper stood across the street, watching as one firefighter after another left the building, carrying equipment and looking exhausted. Then she spotted the man who had effected her downstairs neighbor's rescue, and saw the small ginger bundle, unmoving, which he carried in his arms. A hand flew to her mouth in an attempt to stifle a sob, unsuccessfully.

"I'm so sorry, Miss. Found him under a bed. Smoke got him, not the flames, if that's any consolation."

Molly took the sooty bundle from his arms, and held it close to her heart. "Thank you for fetching him out. I hated the thought of him lying there like some discarded toy."

"No problem. I'd like to think that someone would do the same for mine. Do you have somewhere to go? You can't go back in there. Total loss, I'm afraid."

"My friend is coming to pick me up. Thank you for your concern," Molly said, just as she saw Meena's car approaching. "Here she is now. And thanks again. For everything. And for Toby." The firefighter escorted her to Meena's car, and held the door, as she appeared rather unwilling to let loose her grip on the formerly lively animal in her arms. Meena looked a bit stricken herself when she noticed what Molly was holding so tightly, so she patted her friend gently on her shoulder and took off.

Once at Meena's flat, Molly recounted her whole sad story. All she had left in the world, it seemed, was her purse, which she had thought to grab from the coat hook by the door as she left her flat, the clothes on her back, which were really only a pair of comfy pajamas and slippers, and and former feline companion. All of which carried a distinctly smoky aroma. Meena soon had a large breakfast sitting in front of her, of which Molly ate not a single bit.

"Come on, Molls. You've got to perk up. It's not the end of the world!" Meena spoke, and Molly looked doubtful. "We're about the same size, you can wear my clothes until we can go shopping. Rather a drastic way to justify a new wardrobe, maybe, but shopping always cheers you up!" Molly's heart trembled at the thought of squeezing herself into Meena's definitely more revealing wardrobe.

"I don't work in fashion like you, Meena. Your clothes would hardly be appropriate for my morgue, or lab."

"Might make some of the corpses more lively, luv!" her friend tried to cheer her. "Might even make that detective of yours take notice. What's his deal, anyway?"

"I honestly don't think he has a deal, Meena. And even if he did, it would hardly involve me. And he's out of town, anyway. By the time he gets back, I'll be back in scrubs and lab coats, with nobody the wiser."

"Well, take some time off. Relax. We'll have a little mini-break, just us girls. We'll shop, and dine, and drink wine."

"I appreciate the offer, Meena, but I'm just not in the mood," Molly said, glancing at the shobox which not contained the mortal remains of her longtime companion. "I've called out today, but I need to be in work tomorrow. Too much to do. And I have to decide what to do with Toby. I always thought I'd have him cremated, and keep his ashes, but, considering the way he died, I just can't bring myself to consign him to yet another fire. I'd like to bury him, I guess. I'll keep him in a freezer at the morgue until I can figure it out."

"Whatever you want, Molly. Just know you can stay with me as long as you need to. I know you'd do the same for me."

"I'll be out of your hair as soon as possible, Meena. I don't think the your boyfriend would be quite as accommodating!"

"He may be more accommodating than you think, Molly. Just make sure the door is locked when you take a shower!"

Molly Hooper wasn't sure if her friend was kidding, or not, and promised herself not to impose on her long enough to find out. So, here she was, the next day, up to her elbows in a corpse, and still recovering from the loss of her home, her possessions, her pet, and her life as she knew it. She had just finished stitching up the man, removed her gloves and a bloodstained scrub top, when she heard the unusually confused deep tones of a familiar voice. "This place smells like an American barbecue! Wood smoke. Oak, I think. Excellent choice for barbecue, as hardwoods like oak impart a medium to heavy flavor to the meat, but seldom overpower it…" He stopped abruptly when he saw Molly blanch, perhaps remembering the lovely oak cabinets in her former kitchen, or the desk her father had gifted her when she moved to the city. Or even, a bit more gruesomely, the poor fluffy ginger fur covered meat which to which such heavy flavor may have been imparted.

Sherlock Holmes studies her briefly before saying, in a rather demanding tone, "What?" He received no answer, but her lower lip did start to tremble a bit. "Are you going to cry, Molly?", he spoke again, not for a single second understanding what could be upsetting about anything he had said.

"No!", Molly said, trying to sound positive, but not succeeding very well.

"Yes, you are," Sherlock said, and for some reason he didn't really understand, he reached out and pulled her into his arms. "Tell me what's happened." And so she did. And as she spoke, the soft sniffles became loud sobs, sobs which she had been aching to let out, but had pent up inside, waiting for the right time and the right person. Evidently she had found both. She told him everything, between sobs. About her flat. Her worldly possessions. And, finally, Toby.

Sherlock may have disliked cats, he was more of a dog person, it seemed, but he truly despised Toby. The feline was arrogant, and snobbish, and selfish, and jealous, and possessive. All the same qualities which he recognized in himself, and there was room for only one such creature as this in his pathologist's life. Battlelines had been drawn, and in the end, it had always been the fat ginger tabby who ended up on Molly's lap, purring contentedly as she ran her fingers through his fur. But his Molly had truly loved the animal, and he could commiserate with such a loss. He remembered a scene enshrined in his mind palace, of a young boy with dark curls clung desperately to his elder brother, who held him close in turn, patting his back as the younger brother sobbed out his heartbreak at the loss of his beloved Irish setter, Redbeard. He remembered this, and knew that Molly needed just the same comfort from him, as he had needed from Mycroft.

The noise seemed to have attracted attention, because Mike Stamford approached the pair cautiously, saying, "You should go home, Molly. Take some time to process your loss…"

"I don't have a home anymore!", Molly wailed, causing Mike to take a step backward, and Sherlock to hold onto her all the more tightly. "Of course you do, Molly." He let go of her long enough to grab her purse and coat, and start to lead her to the door. "Come on, now, we'll get dinner, then go on home to Baker Street." He had his phone in one hand, his thumb dancing across the keyboard. His other hand held on to Molly. Perhaps his only misstep was announcing that he craved barbeque, for some reason, and suggesting they dine at The Joint in Brixton Market, but that didn't even occur to him until Molly mentioned that the place smelled like her flat. "Molly, if your flat had smelled this good, I would have spent even more time there!", he joked, and even Molly had to smile at the effort.

As they approached Baker Street later that evening, Molly started to worry all over again. "Sherlock, I have no clothes…"

"That is patently untrue, as you are wearing clothes at the moment."

"These aren't mine, Sherlock. I borrowed them from Meena."

"I can see that, as they are much more fashionable than your usual attire. But, not to worry, we'll go on a shopping expedition tomorrow and get everything you need. Perhaps we can find another cherry jumper, and some outrageously flowered blouses. Baggy trousers, and anything else…"

"You hate the way I dress, Sherlock…"

"But you love your oversized, comfortable, bright, and cutesy attire, Molly, and I would never want to change you. But, perhaps, you'll let me choose one outfit, though, for a special occasion?"

"What special occasion?"

"I was hoping you'd like to meet my parents. I think you'd like them, as they are nothing like my brother and I. We should find something appropriate for an elegant luncheon in the country. Something Mummy will find tastefully attractive, just like you."

"Why is it so important that your mother like me, Sherlock?"

"If she likes you, perhaps she'll let me keep you, Molly!"

Molly looked at the tall, dark, and incredibly handsome man in disbelief. "You intend to keep me, Sherlock? And you need your Mummy's approval to do so?"

"Of course not. Are you mistaking me for Mycroft? It would just be so much easier. Mummy can be a bit temperamental at times, you see."

"I thought you said she was nothing like you? And your father?"

"Papa's taste in women runs parallel to my own. Beautiful, smart, and a bit out of the ordinary. So, naturally, he will adore you. You'll understand what I mean when you meet Mummy."

Molly Hooper was beginning to think that the detective, the love of her life, was leaving some small point out of this rather strange conversation. The small matter of sentiment, feelings, emotional ties. She knew that this was not Sherlock's area of expertise, but she needed some words, or a sign, or well, something. If he intended to "keep her", she would prefer their late night experiments be performed using their own body parts, rather than any she could liberate from Bart's. She was still thinking about it when they opened the door to the flat, and were greeted by a tiny, mewling bundle of ginger fur. A mini-Toby. But this Toby was happily purring, gazing up at the tall man with adoring eyes. Molly took this as her sign. Sherlock Holmes hated cats, and they hated him. But not this one. As the consulting detective tried to shake loose the kitten, who was now clawing his way up his tall legs, Molly bent to read the note attached to a sparkling collar.

I FOUND A CAT FOR THE MISSUS JUST LIKE YOU ASKED. HE'S A CUTE LITTLE FELLOW, BUT HIS EYES AIN'T GREEN LIKE THE OTHER ONE'S, MORE BLUE LIKE YOURS. HOPE YOU CAN HANDLE THE COMPETITION. MAYBE YOU SHOULD LEARN TO PURR, SHEZZA.  
WIGGINS

Sherlock grabbed the note from her hands when Molly started to giggle. After just a second or two, he let out a disturbed "hmmpf!", and walked further into the flat, removing his Belstaff, and relieving Molly of her coat as well. Bending to remove the kitten from his trousers, he led the small woman to the couch and ordered her to sit. He then stretched out on the couch, head in her lap, and kitten on his chest. "I'm training this one correctly from the start!" He then looked impatiently at the woman he had decided to keep, saying, "Well, I'm waiting!" Molly finally caught his meaning, and began to run her fingers through his dark curls, just as she had done to Toby for all those years as he snuggled into her lap. She had to admit, Sherlock's hair felt even softer, and the soft purring sound currently emanating from his throat hinted at the promise of other animal sounds to issue forth in the future. She smiled at the thought of just how she would elicit such sounds. The kitten was also purring as Sherlock scratched lazily at his belly, and Molly found herself becoming more and more jealous of his attentions to the small ball of fur. Sherlock Holmes, ever the great observer of human nature, snickered softly to himself, thinking, "Turnabout is fair play!"

Suddenly, Molly let out a soft almost squeal, "Toby! Oh god, Sherlock, I left him in a freezer in the morgue!"

"Relax, my love, he'll be fine. Probably grateful for the chill after his last experience. We'll pick him up tomorrow, and bury him in the back garden. We can get him a small stone, perhaps. Or plant something for him."

"Sherlock Holmes, I love you, you know." Molly had a small moment of panic. Surely the world's only consulting detective, after surviving the streets and alleyways of London, would live long enough to die of old age, preferably in her arms, just as Toby should have done.

"Of course I know. And by now you should have guessed that the feeling is mutual. And we really don't have to go shopping tomorrow, if you would like to relax. I've already received a text from Stamford, approving a week's leave until you're on your feet again."

"But, Sherlock, I don't have a stitch to wear…"

"I was hoping it could be a 'clothing optional' type of arrangement for the next few days, Dr. Hooper. I've got plenty of dressing gowns, in case we have company. I sometimes prefer just a sheet, however."

"Now that you mention it, I am beginning to feel a bit overdressed. Meena's clothing is much more constricting than I am used to. Makes me wonder how you can stand all those tight shirts, and suits."

"Good tailoring makes all the difference, love. If something fits properly, it's always comfortable. Just like us." He finally finished talking as he drew her head down to allow his lips to meet hers, at first tentatively, then with a hunger that matched her own. And they fit together perfectly.


End file.
